


Two Bloggers

by Jade56



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blogging, Crossover, Friendship, M/M, Modern Era, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: While working on his blog in a café, John meets someone he has a few things in common with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update: I originally marked this story as complete at chapter 1, but I added a couple of chapters after that.

“Excuse me, but you have the look of a man who’s in a bit of a rough spot. In fact, you look just like my old pal Gussie whenever he’s taken away from his newts. He’s a newt fancier, you know. I think he studies them, for some reason or other.”

I didn’t believe that whoever was saying these strange things was speaking to me, at first. I hardly expected anyone to come up to me and start a chat in this café, which I had chosen exactly because I was sure I wouldn’t see anyone I knew here.

Turning away from my laptop screen, I looked at the bloke who had spoken to me. The man seemed like someone out of a men’s fashion mag—button-up shirt and waistcoat, pressed trousers, leather bag with a shoulder strap, and I’m pretty sure his hat was a fedora. I was pretty sure the cartoon cats on his necktie didn’t fit the fashion-mag look, however, nor did his friendly smile.

“What was that about newts?” I asked.

“Oh, never mind about the newts. I go on about things like that sometimes. I only meant to ask if you could use a chum to talk to. It seems to me like you could.”

“Sorry, have we met?”

“We’re meeting right now. Unless you’d rather be left alone? I can’t say I liked the forlorn way you had your head in yours hands, though, and I think I should have taken a picture of your face a minute ago, as there ought to be a few art schools that would love to get their hands on the perfect expression of human sadness.”

Well, he could have put it a little more gently than that! I almost started denying it, but he really did seem concerned. There was something about him that made me feel like I could be honest.

“Maybe I am a little sad,” I said.

“Then let me sit with you. I won’t take much of your time, anyway, seeing as how I’m getting picked up in twenty-ish minutes. You’d be doing me a kindness, actually, giving me someone to talk to! I would much prefer to spend the next twenty-ish minutes in good company.”

I took another long glance at the man. I had to wonder, why did he care? There was no way Sherlock sent him, but maybe he was one of Mycroft’s people, here to spy on me. Or could he be a reporter with nothing else to do on a slow news day? Or worse, he could have come on behalf of one of Sherlock’s enemies.

The bloke was still smiling. He seemed earnest enough. I decided to give him a chance.

“Well, you can sit with me if you want to,” I said, “but I won’t be good company.”

“Excellent! About the first part of that, I mean. And I’m free to form my own opinions on how your company measures up.”

As he reached for the chair across from me, the strange man cried, “Oh!” and faced me again. “I have forgotten to introduce myself! Awfully inconsiderate of me.” He thrust his hand forward. “I’m Bertie.”

The handshake was returned, if somewhat warily, as I still wasn’t sure about him. “John.”

Bertie didn’t seem to notice my wariness at all. “Well, John,” he began, while making himself comfortable on the other chair, one leg over the other and both hands clasped on the knee, “what’s on your mind? Is it something about that website?”

Only then did I remember that my laptop was there, and I saw that I had left my blog on the screen. I had wanted to write my next entry today, in this café.

“That’s my blog, actually.”

“Really? You know, I just started a blog of my own. I have some delightful stories to share with the world, though I can’t seem to quite get a handle on the thing. Maybe you could give me a few pointers sometime. But enough about that,” Bertie said, with a quick wave of his hand. “What’s got you feeling down, John?”

“I’m not sure how much I want to say to a man I've just met.”

“Fair enough. Let me tell you a bit about how I’m feeling, and then it’ll be your turn, if you like. I have to admit that I’m in a sunny mood, since my friend Honoria just got engaged—for good this time, with any luck—and she wants me to be her best man. Er, does that still make me best man? If a bride’s attendant is a man, is he a best man or a maid of honour? Does it matter that Honoria’s marrying another girl?”

Suddenly, I perked up. I saw that I might actually be able to confide in Bertie.

Bertie was tapping rapidly away at his mobile, which I didn’t think he was holding a moment ago. “Ah, found it! It looks like I could be either best man or man of honour, or simply honour attendant.” He returned his mobile to his pocket, and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Interesting how much there is to know about weddings.”

“You don’t mind that your friend is marrying another girl?” I asked, before I could let myself think better of it.

“Hmm? Oh, heavens, no. Now, I do believe it is your turn, John! It’s only sporting, after I shared how I’m feeling.”

I expected Bertie to get that the issue was about what I had just asked. In fact, I was hoping for it, since I admittedly didn’t know how to bring it up myself.

Bertie, however, simply smiled and waited.

“It’s fine with you that two girls carry on together?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“You don’t think it’s wrong for someone to have feelings for someone of the same gender?”

“Of course not.”

I stared at Bertie, waiting for some implication to sink in.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me,” Bertie said.

“For God’s sake—I have feelings for another man!”

I said this more loudly than I intended, and a couple of people next to us looked our way for a moment. Embarrassed, I adjusted my shirt, and lowered my voice, grumbling a bit.

“Not that it’s a big deal or anything.”

“Oh. Splendid!” Bertie cried, joyously clapping his hands together.

“No, it’s not splendid. It’s made my life miserable. I have feelings for my flatmate,” I admitted, more quietly this time, “and I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same way. It sounds pathetic, but I was too distracted by my feelings for him to write in our flat, so I had to come to this café where I wouldn’t think about him.”

Bertie was all sympathy. “Hasn’t worked very well, I take it?”

It was nice that Bertie didn’t seem to think badly of me. “I can’t seem to focus on anything other than him. It’s no wonder I only ever seem to write about him in my blog.” I turned my laptop more toward Bertie, so that he could see it. “At least he hasn’t figured it out yet, though I’m sure he will any day now. Then he’ll kick me out of the flat.”

Peering intently at the screen, Bertie said, “Sherlock? I feel like I’ve heard that name before.”

“He’s been in the news now and then. He’s a detective, sort of. I work with him sometimes.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” At once, Bertie was grinning again. “Of course! I read about one or two of his cases. Gripping stuff! I’ve always loved a good mystery. I didn’t know there was someone blogging about him. I’ll have to read it all!” Bertie snapped a photo of the screen with his mobile. “If that’s all right with you?”

“Be my guest, but… you won’t do anything with what I’ve told you, right? No posting any comments about the lovesick author?”

“Heavens, no! I swear on the code of the Woosters, I won’t betray your secret.”

“The code of the Woosters?”

“It’s my personal code. My full name is Bertie Wooster, you see, and a Wooster has his code. I never let a pal down, and you’re my newest pal.”

“Oh, nice,” I said, continuously astounded by how friendly this man was.

“Besides, I can understand your situation perfectly.”

Surprised, I asked, “You love your flatmate?”

“No. It’s not love, and it’s not a flatmate. I haven’t got a flatmate, actually. Well, I suppose I can’t understand your situation perfectly. But I do greatly admire a chap who doesn’t think very much of me.”

“A friend?”

“My PA. Though he’s less of a PA and more of a miracle worker. He’s a brainy chap, like your mate Sherlock, I fancy.”

I nodded in understanding, even if I didn’t quite believe that someone as casual and young as Bertie had a PA.

A sound chirped from Bertie’s trouser pocket, and he took out his mobile to read the text message.

“My car is here,” Bertie said, glancing at the window. “There he is.”

I couldn’t make out the driver of the silver car waiting on the road, due in part to the tinted windows, but I could make out the car itself. My eyes must have gone wide. It was a _very_ expensive car.

“That’s your car?” I asked, astounded.

“I know, the silver is truly too plain,” Bertie lamented, “but Jeeves—my man, you know—was adamantly against the red.”

“That’s your car,” I repeated, still having difficultly associating it with the man in front of me. “And you have a PA to drive it.”

“He does other things, too. John, I must say, I’m very happy that you were so deeply upset and in need of company, because it was lovely talking to you.”

“Actually, I enjoyed it too.” Putting aside my amazement at Bertie’s casual display of wealth for the moment, I acknowledged that it had been nice to be able to talk to someone. “Do you come to this café often?”

“I’ll start doing so if it means I can help a friend, and I’ll have someone to talk to about the paragon that is Jeeves,” Bertie answered happily. “Speaking of whom, I must be off, as I don’t want to keep him waiting. I’ll see you around, then!”

Bertie packed up his laptop and waved before making his way to the expensive car waiting outside.

Though I tried, I couldn’t catch a glimpse of the PA, but at least I could see as the car pulled away that the man was a very careful driver. He couldn’t be _that_ much like Sherlock, then.

~~

“Meeting you was a brilliant stroke of luck,” Bertie was saying as he typed on his laptop. “You have no idea how lost I was when it came to starting to this blog, and now you’ve got me hammering away at the keys.”

I smiled, honestly happy that I could be of some help. Really, I hadn’t said much: write what comes to mind first, without judging yourself, and once you’ve done that, come back to it later and look at it again. That often worked for me, anyway. I’m not sure how helpful such plain advice could be to someone starting out, though. Maybe all he needed to hear was that I wanted to know more about his stories.

What he told me about his life was rather interesting, though I wonder if he meant his stories to come across as more serious than they seemed to me. They were actually pretty funny. Bertie got into a lot of ridiculous situations.

“John,” he said to me once, “thank you. You’ve offered nothing but support for my modest output, though what I have to say seems frightfully dull compared to your murder mysteries.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re the one who goes to parties with famous authors, owners of companies, and members of Parliament.”

“That makes them sound a lot more impressive than they really are, believe me.”

After a while, we started to move our schedules around so that we could write our blogs together in the café. This worked out great for me, as I always seemed to get more done when I could talk about things with him, and it was a welcome distraction from a flat shared with Sherlock.

“Poor chap,” I heard Bertie saying one day. “Still trying to get over your crush for your pal? I can only be grateful that I’m not suffering the same ailment of the heart over my worthy PA. How awful that would be, since I see him so often. But how understandable too. He’s so charming, you know, and dashed intelligent. I really would be lost without him.”

I hadn’t thought that I was so obvious about it, but I suppose I was wrong. “Do you want to see something ridiculous?” I asked him.

Grinning, he answered, “I can’t say that I’ve ever turned down an offer like that.”

Not really sharing his cheery mood, I turned my laptop his way.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about him again,” I murmured. “I had to write it all down. I know that’s stupid, and I’ll delete it in a minute, but, I don’t know. I think I just wanted someone to see it. You don’t have to read it. I mean, it’s silly, isn’t it? Is it that bad? Bertie?”

He didn’t answer me. I thought that was rude, until I saw the wild look in his eyes. It was like something on the screen had gripped him completely.

“I knew you were a better writer than me,” he said, finally.

“Come again?” I asked.

“This proves it, John. You were able to put it in words.”

“What do you mean?”

“These words, these beautiful words. This is just the thing. This captures it perfectly.”

“Um, thanks. You mean about my feelings for Sherlock?”

He leaned forward, looking at the laptop again, and then turned to me, one hand gesturing enthusiastically toward the screen and another toward himself.

“No, I mean about my feelings for Jeeves!”

“What?”

“It’s incredible, John! I’m tempted to hoist your laptop and give it a firm embrace, but an upstanding chap doesn’t like to jostle a friend’s piece of technology. I say, you’ve illuminated everything for me! I didn’t see until now. This is how I feel about Jeeves. I’m smitten with my PA!”

I was surprised, though this wasn’t as shocking as it might have been if I hadn’t heard him tell me how brilliant this Jeeves of his was a thousand times. He seemed absolutely shocked though. Initially, he was happy about his discovery, but then the energy seemed to fade away, leaving him almost devastated.

“Too much has been illuminated,” he remarked, lowering his voice. “In fact, you could say that the light has given out, and a new kind of darkness has fallen.”

I didn’t really follow him, but it was hard to miss his tone. “That doesn't sound good.”

“I’m smitten with my PA—the chap who works for me. That’s not good, is it?”

I understood him perfectly now. Solemnly, I nodded. “I see what you mean. It’s not on to have feelings for someone who works for you. You can’t do anything.”

“That’s about the size of it. It wouldn’t be right. How awful it would be if he felt he needed to feign affection for me or agree to a date for the sake of his salary! Probably, though, he’d hand in his notice, and I’d never see him again. I’m sure he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s very clever, and handsome, and so charming.”

“Reminds me of someone,” I commented wistfully, eyeing my blog. All this sounded familiar to me. “Sherlock can be charming when he wants to be, at any rate. Well, it seems like we have another thing in common, Bertie.”

He sat back in his chair, in what seemed to be a defeated huff.

“This whole unrequited business. I don’t like it.”

“Welcome to the party.”

Bertie laughed. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”

“At least it’s nice to know your own feelings, isn’t it? And to have someone to talk to. At least, I know I appreciate it. I never talked to anyone about Sherlock, except you. I was afraid to talk to anyone I know. I didn’t want them telling him, or even hinting at it, since he’d figure them out.”

“I have to agree, on all your points. I don’t think I’ll be telling anyone else about my posish either.”

There was a familiar digital sound from Bertie’s pocket, and within moments, he was packing up, though not as easily as he had in the past.

Bertie waved as he went, soon leaving the café and pausing for a moment before he entered the expensive car. I knew exactly why Bertie had to pause. How could he blithely hop in the car, after all, when he had just discovered that he loved the man who was driving it?

I looked at my laptop again, at the long page I’d written about Sherlock. I’d written about how I wanted to curl up next to him on the sofa, and look at his face while he’s thinking about something; how I loved holding his hand when we were running together, because of some absurd situation he got us into; how he was so incredibly brilliant, and fragile, and beautiful.

It didn’t seem to me like what I’d typed up lived up to what Bertie said, but at least he’d got something out of it. There was no reason to keep it up any longer. With a sigh, I deleted the draft.

~~

“Is this seat taken?”

Before I could answer, or even look up from my table, a tall man in a crisp black suit was taking the empty seat in front of me.

“Dr. Watson, I know that you are trying to be helpful to Mr. Wooster. I have come across your blog, and I believe that you generally intend to be helpful.”

Once I remembered who Mr. Wooster was, I couldn’t help but think that I hadn’t been that helpful. If anything, it was Bertie who was doing a lot to help me cope with my own unhappy situation. That was why he had starting sitting with me, to begin with.

“Are you Jeeves?” I asked.

“Indeed I am,” he answered cordially. “Ordinarily, I would be surprised that you know my name, as my employer has no reason to make me a topic of conversation with his acquaintances, but in this case, I know what has been occurring.”

“Pardon?”

“Do not try to hide it. You have been talking to my employer regarding his… feelings. Though he has told me nothing, his manner has changed so abruptly and in so telling a fashion that I was able to observe what has happened. Whatever it is you two have discussed, you led to him to a false conclusion. Mr. Wooster is a young man who does not yet know what he wants. He is vibrant, one might even say effervescent, and as you can clearly see, I am not.”

Jeeves leaned forward slightly, and clasped his hands together on the table, his eyes hard.

“He would tire of me sooner rather than later. I am content to continue working for Mr. Wooster, and would prefer this to losing him entirely. I hope that you will help him see the error in his conclusions.”

I stared at him. I couldn’t believe what he saying.

“Do you understand me, Dr. Watson?”

“First of all, call me John. We’re in a café, not a hospital. Second, are you serious? Are you really serious? You like him, and he likes you, so what’s the problem? I can’t believe you’re really going to sit there and tell me he’s too young to know what he wants. He’s not _that_ young. How long have you been working for him, anyway?”

“A few years,” he conceded.

“A few years! Well, he hasn’t got tired of you yet, has he?”

“It seems not,” Jeeves said, with a note of uncertainty.

“If you actually like Bertie, then why not give it a chance?”

This was ridiculous. I knew very well how Bertie felt about Jeeves, so if Jeeves felt the same way, what was the problem?

“Jeeves,” I said, somewhat awkwardly, not knowing what his first name was, “I can’t say I know you all that well, but I know Bertie, and I know he’ll do what it takes to make a relationship work. He certainly likes you enough. If you like him, let him know.”

Jeeves gave me a measured, doubting look. I stood my ground.

“If you don’t,” I continued, “you will always wonder what could have been.”

There was another long pause as he considered me.

“I admit that I do not share your optimism,” he said at last, glancing out the windows, “but indeed, I would prefer not to always wonder. I will speak with him.”

“Great! That’s great.” I smiled, thrilled that I could do some small thing that might make Bertie happier. I wasn’t sure if Jeeves was as dramatic as some people I could name, but it was fun to imagine how Jeeves would make his feelings known to Bertie, and how happy my friend would be.

Jeeves stood up from the table, and gave me some obscure expression, like a smile, but more subtle than that.

“Will you consider your own advice, Dr. Watson?”

He left, leaving me stunned.

I was certain that Bertie hadn’t given away my secret, but if Jeeves was half as brilliant as Bertie made him out to be, maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised that he figured something out.

~~

A few days later, I noticed that there was a new post on Bertie’s blog. He said that something had happened that promised to bring a joyful turn to his life, or something like that, and that he was exceedingly thankful to a friend, to whom he owes a grand favour.

I certainly didn’t need a favour. If anything, Bertie and Jeeves had already done something incredible for me. Even if there was no certainty that their relationship would work out, they were at least willing to try, and neither of them would spend their days imagining what they could have had together. There was no telling whether Sherlock would ever return my feelings or not, of course, but there was a chance.

At least I wouldn’t wonder any longer.

I took a deep breath, taking one long look around the café, and then closed my laptop, preparing to head home to Baker Street.

~~

John is a proper friend, there’s no denying that, and I always look forward to seeing him in the café. I’m a great admirer of his blog—I’ve always been a fan of a good mystery, and his pal Sherlock ploughs through them in droves—but it wasn’t just that, you know. John had long been a sympathetic ear while I’d pined, knowingly and unknowingly, for Jeeves, and always he was a treasure when it came to giving me advice for my own blog.

So don’t think for a second that I’d got to know John in order to meet his friend, the famed detective. I never thought I’d see the bloke in person, actually. Sherlock Holmes doesn't seem like the kind of fellow who trots about London joyfully shaking hands with new people and asking them how their days are going.

Yet one day, I came to the dependable café, and there was sitting Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing his dramatic coat and generally looking as intense and impressive as if he’d popped out straight from the telly.

“Well, Sherlock! I’ll be blown,” I said, cheerfully marching up to the fellow. “Are you here with John?”

Now, I’d like to think that some person in this wide world might not think me an idiot for approaching this man in this particularly familiar way. If I might provide some excuse, I was rather caught up in the moment, and I had spent so much time with John that Sherlock seemed almost like a relation. Besides, I tend to greet everybody like an old friend. Whether or not this is a positive trait is a subject for discussion at some other time.

If some person did indeed not think me an idiot, I fancy this person was not Sherlock Holmes. “No,” he answered, his voice low and thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m not here with John. It’s good that you know my name; that will save some time. You are Bertie Wooster, of course.”

“Oh, yes, that’s me. Oh, blast, I should have introduced myself, shouldn’t I? I forgot to do that with John too, as a matter of fact. I suppose I seem like an awfully rude blighter to you, walking up to you like this. I’ve seen you on the telly—well, you must’ve already figured that out—but that’s hardly fair, it’s not like you’ve seen me there, I should think!”

“Are you finished yet?”

At this, I shut up like a clam. I was tempted to add that I do have a habit of rambling, but I was sure he could deduce that for himself.

Sherlock turned his eyes to the chair across from him. “Have a seat, Mr. Wooster.”

“Right-o.” I plopped onto the seat indicated. “You can call me Bertie, if you like.”

“Fine. John told me something recently, something I had never expected to hear him say, and I suspect that you are to blame.” He leaned forward, and his voice dropped a little further. “We start with John,” he said, more quickly. “John has feelings for me, but thinks them unrequited; he hides these feelings in this café; you find him here and keep him company; you share the predicament of your own love interest; John encourages the two of you to confess to each other; you two encourage John to confess his own feelings.”

“Well, actually,” I began. Sherlock was talking so quickly that it was hard to get a word in—verging on rambling, one might almost say—but I had to clarify a point. “That was my man alone; my dear man, I suppose I can call him now! I can't say that i had any great share in encouraging John to confess."

“The post on your blog did as much. In any case…” His voice slowed down, and he leaned a little back. “This chain of events was able to progress as it did because you showed concern for John and spent time with him. And now, I can be honest with him about how I feel.” He paused, and smiled, an expression of gentleness that I had never seen on telly-Sherlock, and clearly it was the telly’s loss. “Thank you, Bertie.”

“Oh?” Up until then, I’d sported some vague idea that Sherlock might be here to rebuke me, but now the Wooster eyes were opened. “Not a problem,” I said happily. It was always a pleasure to do a bit of good for a pal, or in this case two pals, if I may call Sherlock a pal, and I hope I may. “John’s feelings aren’t so unrequited, then?”

“Not really, no,” he answered, still smiling. “It’s the polite thing to congratulate you on your own success with that fellow Jeeves, I gather.”

“Thank you very much. That’s largely thanks to John, I should add.”

“John is good like that. I glanced at your blog, by the way. Your Jeeves, he seems clever enough, if rather preoccupied with the abstract. We’d get along either very well or very poorly I think, and perhaps someday we will find out which one. But not today.” Sherlock stood up from his chair. “Must be going; date with John. Let me say that again—date with John. Charming phrase. Has a nice sound.”

“That sounds lovely. What will you two be doing for your date?”

“No doubt you will discover that when you help him write his next blog entry. I’ll try to make it a good read.”

Just like that, Sherlock was off, with as much enthusiasm as I imagined he had for the most interesting cases.

This amount of enthusiasm was something to which I could relate, since I had a date of my own later that day that I was very much looking forward to.

I couldn't help but ponder with joy what John would have to tell me when I helped him with his next post, and what I would have to share for myself, when he helped me with mine—we are two bloggers, come what may!


	2. Chapter 2

After my first official date with Sherlock, I typed up something short about it. Bertie helped me out with it one afternoon in our usual café. I didn’t go too much into detail, but it was still amazing to be able to write up something so good happening in my life, and it was nice to see a few supportive comments on the post from a couple of people.

Bertie, on the other hand, never added another entry about his developing relationship with Jeeves after that first vague post about something good happening in his life. He posted about some more adventures they had with Bertie’s friends among the idle rich, but that was it. He didn’t mention anything about it to me, either.

When I asked him about it, Bertie went into a sulk. He told me he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it just then, but he invited me to see him that weekend at his flat. In the meantime, he pulled out his phone and played some kind of cartoonish game, though he didn’t really seem to focus on it.

I like to think that I’ve done pretty well for myself, all things considered. A flat share on Baker Street isn’t bad at all, and if it weren’t for Sherlock’s experiments flung about the place, it could even be nice. Sure, there are times when I have to be more aware than usual of how much I’m spending, but I’ve managed to pay my percentage, and I’m proud of the home that I’ve made with Sherlock.

That’s all still true, but wow, you should see Bertie’s flat!

He lives in a block of flats called Berkeley Mansions, in Berkeley Square, Mayfair. For anyone who doesn’t know, this is Posh Land. Prestigious buildings surround well-kept gardens, and you can find corporate headquarters and upscale shops all around there. If you’re familiar with the game Monopoly—the typical UK type, with London locations—you might know that Mayfair is the most expensive property on the board. Well, there’s a reason for that.

It’s not like I hadn’t known any rich people before I got to know Bertie. I’ve met lots of posh people (some friendly, others, not so much) while working cases with Sherlock, and his own family doesn’t seem to be short of money. However, I expect something different from my mates, the everyday blokes who aren’t clients or criminals or named Holmes. If I’m passing the time with a pal, that usually means I’m grabbing a drink in a regular pub or having a chat in a regular flat. So you can imagine how odd it felt for me to head right into Berkeley Mansions just to see a friend.

I already felt lost in the lobby, which was a sort of upscale reception area. Across the spacious expanse of this lobby, I saw someone at a computer behind the reception desk who was dressed to impress, and a couple of people with clothes that were just as classy passed me by on their way out. This all made me wonder if I’d come to the right place. Was this a block of flats or a luxury hotel?

For a moment I was stunned, but I’d been in much stranger places than this, and before long I was marching up to the desk. It wouldn’t have shocked me if the man at the computer had given me a hesitant look, given my simple getup of plaid and jeans. Fortunately, the man at the computer didn’t seem to notice. He was nice enough to me when I asked which way Bertie Wooster was. Mentioning that he’d been informed that Mr. Wooster was expecting a guest, he told me to head over to apartment 3A.

Taking a ride up the spotless lift three levels up, and then a few steps down a brightly lit hallway, I came to the door of 3A. The fact that the next door on that side of the hallway seemed miles away suggested he had a big place, though I’d already guessed that much.

I tapped the button for the doorbell and waited, bouncing on my feet once or twice as I wondered what Bertie’s flat would look like.

The door opened, and I opened my mouth to say hi to my pal Bertie—but it was Jeeves, no more expressive than his plain black suit.

Well, that made things a little awkward. For one thing, I’d only met Jeeves once, at the café, and while we’d had a good chat, we weren’t yet on close terms, if we ever would be. We both knew Bertie well, but I really only knew of Jeeves what I’d heard from my friend, and I suppose Jeeves didn’t know much more than that of me. I couldn’t exactly slap him on the shoulder like an old friend.

Furthermore, I hadn’t thought Jeeves would be at Bertie’s home. In my mind, a personal assistant was someone who drove all over the place, constantly picking up coffee and laundered clothes. It was reasonable to think that a PA does some work in an office, too, arranging schedules and setting up meetings, yet that hardly accounted for him being in Bertie’s apartment. Unless Jeeves was here as Bertie’s boyfriend, and not as his PA?

But that didn’t fit the facts, either. He was wearing a professional-looking suit, and he was impeccably polite and respectful as he stepped to the side and welcomed me in with a calm voice.

In the main sitting area of the roomy, well-ordered flat, Bertie was seated at a large sofa, leaning over his laptop on a round coffee table, which also had a mug of coffee, judging from the smell.

Jeeves walked closer to him, ahead of me, and I’m not kidding when I say that he actually announced, like a butler in a period drama:

“Dr. Watson.”

“What ho, old scout!” Bertie greeted me, using a couple of old-fashioned expressions that he was fond of. I supposed he read a lot of old books. “Want a drop of something to drink?”

“Tea would be great.”

“It often is,” Bertie said with approval. “Could you conjure a splash of tea for John, Jeeves?”

“At once, sir,” Jeeves answered, and he walked through a door to what appeared to be the kitchen, barely making any noise as he moved.

Bertie waved at one of the armchairs opposite the sofa, and I took it.

“It’s good to see you, John. I’m glad you found the place all right.”

“It’s hard to miss. I can’t believe you live here.”

“Oh, you like the place?”

Turning my head left and right, I got a better look at the apartment: a fireplace flanked by bookshelves, a sturdy bureau near the sunny windows, a giant glossy piano, and other smart pieces of furniture. Bertie’s flat was done over in what I’ve heard called warm, neutral tones. It was the kind of mild setup you’d choose for a place when it’s for sale and you want the digs to look good to everyone. Knowing how vibrant and expressive the man is, I was sure that Bertie wasn’t the one who did the decorating here, and guessing from the pristine condition of every piece of furniture, he got help with the cleaning, too.

Perhaps a ritzy building like this had a cleaning service, as well, or it was Jeeves who kept the flat shining clean. I was certain that a PA didn’t do that kind of thing, though.

“It’s very nice,” I told Bertie. “It must cost a fortune.”

“You could say it does,” Bertie replied. “A little pricier than the old place—Chrichton Mansions if you know it, not too far from here, nice enough spot but not well stocked with lovers of loud music—but I like it.”

There was a question I’d wanted to ask Bertie for a long time, and now I couldn’t keep it in any longer: “What do you do for a living, anyway?”

“Hmm? Oh, you mean work. I know some pals who go in for that sort of thing. You, for one, with your doctoring and your case-solving. I’ll bet you and Sherlock have nabbed a pretty commission or two.”

“You mean you don’t work?”                                        

“Can’t say that I do. I’ve done this and that, drew up an article for my aunt’s website, tried a bit of music now and then. But truthfully, it’s the toil of my inheritance that funds the flat.”

I heard the whistle of water boiling from the kitchen.

Bertie’s face brightened suddenly. “Oh, and there’s Jeeves. He works, of course, and thank goodness for that. I don’t know where I’d be if he hadn’t signed up. He’s really a gem of a PA, you know.”

Bertie went on a little more about Jeeves’s virtues, yet I was still stuck on what he had said. Considering his relatively young age, I hadn’t thought Bertie’s money was inherited. So Bertie had lost his parents at least, and maybe other relatives. I had also been left almost without family (and sometimes it seemed like I hardly knew my sister anymore), so I could relate to at least that aspect of his life. There was also the fact that Bertie was younger than me, which probably made it harder for him. I wondered how long he had been on his own, though I didn’t think it would be right to ask.

Jeeves drifted into the sitting room and placed my tea before me. “Your tea, sir.”

His formal manner left me unsure how to answer, so I simply smiled in thanks.

Jeeves turned towards Bertie. “Would you care for some tea, sir, or is your coffee sufficient?”

Hold on, before I continue, I have to clear something up. It’s how Jeeves says the word “sir.” Though they’re spelled the same on paper, the “sir” he gives me and the “sir” he gives Bertie are not one and the same.

The word “sir” can be said in a lot of different ways. You don’t even need to try saying it I other languages, because even just staying with English, you can pronounce that word quickly, slowly, tersely, softly; you could, for example, answer your boss with a direct “Sir,” or belt out a loud and clear “Sir!” to a drill instructor.

When Jeeves had got my tea in front of me, he had used the word “sir” as one might when pointing a customer to the right aisle; it was plain and polite. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the default option. To Jeeves, most people were lost customers looking for the right aisle.

However, when Jeeves had turned towards Bertie, the “sir” was almost a different word than the one Jeeves had used on me. What Bertie got was light as a feather, and drawn out with care, as if Jeeves was painting a masterpiece of his special muse with that one syllable. I never heard Jeeves use this version on anyone else. I suppose that for Jeeves, there was only one special muse.

I couldn’t tell if Bertie grasped the extra weight his “sir” got, or if Jeeves himself noticed he was saying the word differently.

Anyway, I’ve cleared that up, so I’ll go on with what happened next:

Bertie answered, “I’m fine with my coffee, thanks.”

“Very good, sir,” flinging another artistic “sir” like a drop from a paintbrush. “I will be attending to the jacket that requires mending.”

Jeeves drifted out to a part of the flat I wasn’t familiar with. Without a word, Bertie smiled wistfully at the back of Jeeves’s black jacket.

This formality between them was more confusing than ever to me. It was clear from the Jeeves’s fond “sir” and Bertie’s wistful smile that the feelings between them hadn’t been given up on the first date, but I couldn’t tell whether they were dating or not.

“Bertie,” I said, with a lowered voice, “what’s going on with you and Jeeves?”

“What do you mean, old top?”

“Well, for one thing, why is he in your house making you coffee and fixing your clothes? Is he working right now? I thought a PA filed things in offices and picked up takeaway.”

“Certainly he’s working now. PAs are like snowflakes, John—no two are alike. My PA happens to be a paragon of PAs who does just about anything I need done, and then some. And it’s not just what I need done, either. Really, Jeeves isn’t so much a PA as a Mayfair consultant. He pulls me and my pals out of the soup at regular intervals with his brainy schemes. I fancy, now that you mention it, he’s made a unique position for himself. How many chaps could do all that he does? I’m lucky to have such a man under my roof.”

“Does he live with you?”

“Oh, no. He’s under the roof now, is what I mean. A Wooster is nothing if not honest, though, and I must say I wouldn’t mind it if he were. In the old days, there were lots of live-in workers, who lived in where they worked, you know. Sometimes I wish these were the old days.”

“But…” And here I finally gave in to the question that had been burning in my mind hotter than the tea in my mug. “Aren’t you two dating now?”

For a moment, the perpetual light in Bertie’s eyes dimmed.

“It’s a rummy sitch,” he murmured. “Dashed awkward, by Jove.”

Despite his serious tone, I couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

Confused, Bertie eyed me with suspicion. “You’re seeming awfully chirpy all of a sudden.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that you sometimes speak in an unusual way. A little old-fashioned, though charming.”

“Ah! You think I’m old-fashioned, do you? Just wait ‘til you have a few more words with Jeeves. He can’t get out more than a sentence or two without some input from ye olde fifteenth-century poets, and philosophers who tottered around before the wheel was invented. Not to mention the old statute of his that he goes by his surname, while lots of people get away with calling their PAs by their first names. Next to him, I’m a vision of the future.”

Bertie leaned back, and sighed.

“The truth is, I’ll be blown if I know whether we’re dating or not. We did scuttle out to dinner, and let me tell you, I’ve had better successes. As civil as you like, the whole thing, but I got about as much conversation out of him then as you just witnessed over the tea and coffee. I was overjoyed when he agreed to go out with me, but now I wonder if I’ve pushed the thing along too quickly. I don’t know if he’s quite ready to talk to me as an equal, and I’m afraid I don’t know what to do about it.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I see. With a super-old-fashioned bloke like Jeeves, I wouldn't know, either.”

For a moment we both thought in silence, then Bertie spoke again. “Oh, but I don’t mean to make this all about me. You must think me awfully self-absorbed. Does all continue well between you and Sherlock?”

“Actually, yeah,” I answered happily. “Like I told you before, we had a wonderful date. He’s still a little nervous, but that’s to be expected. I don’t think he’s dated much. Anyway, it’s going better than I expected.”

“I’m quite happy for you. At least things are going well for one of us, wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t give up yet, Bertie.”

Bertie shrugged. “What can I do?”

“Hmm.” My eyes rose to the ceiling as I thought about his problem. “You could try calling Jeeves by his first name, even when he’s working. It will probably feel odd at first if you’ve never done that before, but things are different now. It might help him feel more equal to you.”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, really. Frightfully silly, you know. I couldn’t say if he even _has_ a first name.”

“What?” I was astonished. “You don’t think he’s got a first name?”

“I’m not saying that. I only mean that, if he’s tucked one away somewhere, I haven’t seen it.”

“You never asked?”

Bertie shook his head. “A private sort of chap, Jeeves. I shouldn’t like to make him uncomfortable by prying overmuch.”

“But,” I sputtered, “it’s just his name!”

“You really think he wouldn’t mind my asking?”

“Of course not.” It seemed absurd to me that anybody would so private as to keep their first name secret.

With a hopeful spring in his step, Bertie leapt from the sofa, and made his way closer to the hallway (like I said, it’s a big flat). From there, he called out, “Oh, Jeeves, would you join us for half a tick?”

Bertie soon lumbered back, as Jeeves drifted in noiselessly behind him. I imagine Jeeves was curious about why he’d been called up, but his face was as impassive as ever.

“John and I were wondering something, if you wouldn’t mind one little quick question, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves intoned, awaiting the question. “I hope I am capable of providing the information you desire.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.” Bertie laughed, in a feeble and nervous way. I think he was starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea, because the hopeful spring from before was already fading, but he carried on. “You see, it’s up to you whether you give us the answer. You’ll know the answer, of course, if an answer there be, but one doesn’t like to pry where prying’s not wanted. Not that you’d want any prying at all. We know you’re a private fellow, certainly. And there’s no harm in giving it a miss. Oh, not that we don’t want to know, though.”

I could tell that he could go on like this for a while, so I spoke up. “What’s your first name, Jeeves?”

For a long moment, Bertie and Jeeves were both absolutely silent. Bertie gazed at me with admiration, while Jeeves remained inexpressive.

Then Jeeves replied.

“Simply ‘Jeeves’ will suffice.”

Though not happy about that answer, Bertie didn’t seem surprised. I, on the other hand, really hadn’t expected something like that.

“You really won’t give us your first name?”

“We are not on terms of that nature, Dr. Watson.”

“What about you and Bertie? You two aren’t on a first name basis either?”

Once more, Jeeves hesitated before answering the question. “I confess that I would like to address Mr. Wooster in that way.” There was a short buoyant hum from Bertie at this. “But I find myself unable to. I fear I cannot explain it better than to say that it feels unnatural.” His eyebrows moved a little in a kind of apologetic way. I don’t mean that he wasn’t very apologetic—I’d come to see that he barely expresses anything, so actually he must’ve been feeling it hard.

“Don’t you like him?” I asked frankly, and heard a startled gasp from Bertie. I was sorry to make him nervous by being so forthright, but _someone_ had to set things straight here. “You’re not still worried that Bertie’s going to get tired of you, are you?”

Bertie quickly piped in. “I’m certainly not.”

“No, sir. That possibility is not what concerns me at present.” More than anything, he seemed resigned. “One might suppose,” he said to me, “you are under the impression that, in this modern world, class differences no longer exist. If that is so, Dr. Watson, then you are mistaken. The boundaries may be less rigid than in times past, and not as apparent in your own daily life, but distinctions of that nature exist as they have always done, and are still very clear to persons in certain social positions. Though you may only know him as a genial friend, Mr. Wooster is in fact from a prominent and influential family, and people in his position simply do not become close to their employees.”

It seemed to me like he was exaggerating. I said to Bertie, “That’s all silly, right?”

Bertie shook his head, staring at the ground. “Jeeves has a point, I’m afraid. Our world isn’t exactly like yours. Imagine, John, that all your kith and kin had a title or were in grabbing distance of one, and all your pals came from the same old dear schools as you, and not one of you had been without a kind of personal attendant since bouncing into this world. Fancy, then, how you’d feel giving Sherlock the rush if his circle was all the working set, thoroughly respectable and self-reliant and all that. I mean to say, how do you carry on together? Do you become more like his people—or him like yours?”

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. “This isn’t the eighteenth century. If you two like each other, then who cares?”

“Such an opinion,” Jeeves retorted, “suggests that you yourself are not close to your own family, or to a circle of long acquaintance of similar social standing.” He had a knowing tone that almost reminded me of Sherlock, though Jeeves put it a lot more subtly than Sherlock would have. “You are not expected to uphold any traditions or make any consideration for the family name. If you would be so good as to consider the issue from my perspective, or from Mr. Wooster’s, you might agree that our circumstances are different than yours.”

Bertie softly added, “John, old fruit, I like the attitude, and that’s a fact, but it’s nothing doing. Jeeves won’t be comfortable being something other than PA around here, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Sir.” You can guess where that came from, and which _sir_ he used.

The maybe-sad eyes of Jeeves met the obviously-sad eyes of Bertie.

“Sir, I have been cowardly. I am sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Jeeves. I knew that I’d be putting you in a devil of a position if I asked you out. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable—the last thing any right-minded Bertram would dream of doing. We can drop this whole thing if that’d be better. Back to the simple employer-and-employee wheeze, if you’d be more comfortable that way.”

“No, sir!” Jeeves’s sharp cry took me by surprise, and Bertie nearly jumped out of his chair. “I do love you, sir.”

“Oh, Jeeves,” Bertie murmured, close to tears. “Then open up a bit, why don’t you?”

It would have been plain to anyone that the conversation was getting pretty emotional, but they didn’t ask me to leave, and I felt I had to make sure it all worked out if I could.

“The idea is not an unpleasant one,” Jeeves said, “but I must find a way to overcome my old instincts, sir.”

“I have an idea,” I stated suddenly.

Jeeves and Bertie had probably forgotten I was there, though they didn’t seem upset to see that I was there.

“Well don’t hold out on us!” Bertie encouraged. “Ideas are treated like treasures in this house, aren’t they, Jeeves?”

“This is not, strictly speaking, a house, but I concur with your general sentiment, sir. I am extremely interested to hear any suggestion you may have to offer, Dr. Watson.”

“All right. Good.” I took a deep breath, because this idea was sort of a tricky one. “You can hang out with Sherlock and I sometime. We can all go out together, away from the class-conscious people you both seem to know. I don’t care about this class stuff, and Sherlock cares less than anyone. With all the four of us being friends, well, that’d put you two on even ground, right?”

Bertie grinned, which made me happy to see. “Oh, a double date! What a thought.”

“Am I to understand that the principle to be,” Jeeves noted, “that, in the open and informal atmosphere generated by yourself and Mr. Holmes, I will find myself able to be on closer terms with Mr. Wooster?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You know ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? Well, ‘the friend of my friend is my friend,’ right? We’ll all be friends, and you’ll feel comfortable calling him Bertie. Everything will be as it should be.”

“Spiffing idea, I should say.”

“It is generous of you, Dr. Watson, to take so strong an interest in my issue,” Jeeves said graciously, “and very understanding of you, Mr. Wooster, to be so patient with me. I am grateful that you are allowing me another opportunity, sir.”

“The gratitude’s all mine, Jeeves.”

“I realize that, during our first date, if I may be so bold as to refer to that evening by that description, I was not the scintillating suitor you deserve.”

“Oh, don’t worry over it. You’re always perfect, old paragon of mine.”

Bertie smiled warmly at his PA, and, shyly bowing his head to cover it up a bit, Jeeves smiled back.

“Then it’s settled,” I declared. “It’ll be great. I’m sure Sherlock will be on board with a double date.”

All right, I wasn’t so sure that Sherlock would agree. He’s not always the most sociable guy. However, I was confident I could convince him that it was a good idea. Him and Jeeves, both being brainy, problem-solving types, ought to enjoy getting to know one another. I figured they’d get along right away, like how Bertie and I did when we first met. And just like how Bertie and I bonded over writing our blogs, Jeeves and Sherlock could relate to each other since they both did consulting work, more or less. Plus, the new experience of a double date would make things interesting for Sherlock, who can never stand a dull moment.

Yeah, I was sure we’d all be good friends right away. Sherlock would make a new friend, we’d both help Bertie and Jeeves with their problems, and we would all have a great time.

Things didn’t work out exactly as I predicted.


	3. Chapter 3

I should say that when John put forth his grand wheeze, being the idea that the four lads should rally round for a spot of sustenance and friendly chat with the hope that relations between Jeeves and Wooster would drop to a lower rung on the formality ladder, I was all for it. What better way to relax than with faultless food and drink alongside one’s Jeeves and across from sympathetic faces? Judging from its outline, the plan was an absolute pippin, all but guaranteed to affirm general happiness, wouldn’t you think.

When you’re prepared to stake the family name that a thing is a cert, it gives pause to see the hopes come crashing down into a pile of little pieces, like a vase against the floor, though in this case, it was less of a loud crash and more of a tense-ish silence, the kind you’d get when the vase and the floor fall short of actually hitting each other, though the vase observed the floor could be said to be stuck-up and manipulative, and the floor noted that the vase might be described as mercurial and impetuous.

Hold on a minute. I’m telling the story all wrong, aren’t I? Not only have I jumped too far ahead, but the details I’ve dropped here and there hardly make the whole picture. If I haven’t lost you by this point, then I can only assume you were there and you know all about it. For those fortunate enough to be somewhere else at that early stage of the evening, I’ll play it back in chrono order.

After a solid display of collaboration and discussion, John and I had chosen the restaurant for our double date. It was a nice enough place. Not so ritzy that I would be met by any nosy sorts from my social circle who would make a fuss of my eating with Jeeves, nor so pedestrian that any one of us could kid ourselves into thinking this wasn’t a date. A piano on one side and darts on the other, if you follow me. A solid balance of tablecloths and Bermuda shorts in the air. Not that I myself was wearing Bermuda shorts, however spiffing such garments are. They’re simply not the raiment one chooses when one wants to impress Jeeves.

Say what you will about Jeeves’s taste in clothes, one must say this much: it is consistent. No coins required flipping, nor had any runners needed to be sent to distant oracles. I knew exactly what to wear to this date to put hope for the species in my man. A quiet brown suit, complete with waistcoat, and a touch of deep red around the neck were altogether my ensemble. I considered garnishing myself with a stiff homburg to really make me sparkle in Jeeves’s eyes, it being an old-fashioned piece that Jeeves adored like a nephew. Though the antique gave me pause, it was an honest hat, and I was prepared to flip it off the stand; however, it occurred to me that pulling out all the stops so early in our courtship left me with little room to dazzle in future. So the homburg was put away for a rainy day.

Someday, Jeeves and I would be closer, on equal footing, as true partners, and it would be all the better then to knock his socks off with the alluded headwear. There’d be an endearing how-do-I-look from my corner, and an open and candid assessment of how breathtaking I was from his corner (one can hope), and maybe there’d be a jolly kiss at the end of it, set to the applause of some courteous audience.

Stuffed with thoughts of what life would be like being on kissing terms with Jeeves, I was grinning like my face needed the exercise when I oozed into the restaurant, and my beam was made all the brighter as I spotted Jeeves, who had set up shop at a square table for four. A waiter was sauntering away, having just received his orders from Jeeves, who somehow knew what all four of us wanted.

Though Jeeves is perpetually outfitted in a dark suit, he was always a dashed fine looker in it, to put it in polite language, and I bolted towards him.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I spurted when I came close, in place of the suave greeting I’d been aiming for.

Jeeves turned to me with a cautious face. “Hello, sir.” He nudged his tie a little by way of adjusting it, though nothing before or since was ever so perfectly in place.

“You’re not working right now,” I reminded him gently. “You can give the ‘sir’ business a rest.”

“Yes, of course. I am sorry.”

“You may dispense with the sorries. Might I join you?”

Jeeves nodded, and I took the seat to his left.

Taking a second to take better inventory of a face I loved and cherished, I saw that Jeeves was nervous. He’s not the kind of chap who displays his every feeling like a stock ticker, but I’d known the man for some time, and it was clear enough from the way his eyes averted mine that need for reassurance was indicated.

I was nervous, too, but I remembered that John and his significant other would be here soon helping us through, and everything was going to be just fine. “I’m happy to be here, Jeeves,” I told him earnestly, “and I’m delighted that you could make it.”

“Thank you.”

“I think we’ll have a good time, won’t we?”

Jeeves wasn’t exactly prompt with an answer, so I leaned a bit closer to him and hushed the voice somewhat.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I know this feels strange, but you mean the world to me. I want to make this work.”

The averting gaze wandered back, and the corner of his mouth lifted noticeably, possibly by an entire quarter of an inch.

“Also,” I continued, buoyed to the stars by that twitch of a smile, “you look devilishly handsome this evening, if I may say so.”

Jeeves’s smile lifted further. “Thank you. Your own appearance transcends what words may describe.”

This bucked my spirit no small amount, to hear my dress met with Jeevesian approval. These things mean a lot to him, you know, and making a good impression on Jeeves meant a lot to me. Not to mention, he knew when something suited a chap.

“Hey, Bertie! Jeeves, hello!”

John rolled up, looking nice and clean, not as formally dressed as Jeeves or myself, but not at all outside the range of the restaurant’s patrons. He found his place across from self, right of Jeeves.

“How are you two doing?” John asked considerately. A stalwart pal, this John Watson, and I’ll attest that to anyone.

“I think ‘nervous but happy’ is the caption we want. Rather fits the bill, doesn't it, Jeeves?”

“Very admirably,” Jeeves admitted, bless him.

“That’s not a bad start. Oh, here’s Sherlock,” John said, glancing at the door.

I didn’t need John’s notice to know that Sherlock Holmes had stopped in. Though I’d only met the chap once before, I was well aware that Sherlock has a way of being noticeable. I’m sure that when he’s made himself up as a constable or what have you, Sherlock can pass off a disguise as well as anyone; but in his ordinary form, with his curly mop and flapping coat and overall air of a hero strutting about the stage, I doubt anybody would mistake him for a gentle breeze flowing modestly through the window.

He’s the opposite of Jeeves in that way, I suppose. If you’re not watching Jeeves like a hawk, you might place your teacup empty on the table and find it filled as if by magic. Sherlock, on the other hand, strides into being with all the subtlety of the opening credits for an action film.

So it was now. Sherlock whirled round to our table like a tornado that’s had its number called.

“Jeeves,” he said, “are you prepared to make a deal?”

I thought perhaps Jeeves might have some background info to explain this abrupt inquiry, though even he seemed taken aback. “I understand you are Mr. Holmes,” Jeeves uttered, never the chap to go on in conversation without having gone through the introductions first.

“I’ve done my research,” Sherlock persisted, with a lowered voice, “and I know exactly who you are. You’ve made quite the cover for yourself, staying quietly in the service of a harmless socialite, but you’re one of the best-connected men in London. You know every butler, maid, and chauffeur who works for anyone of importance, or am I wrong? It all became clear to me when I found out about the Junior Ganymede. Yes, I know all about it.”

Jeeves narrowed his eyes. “I am afraid that I do not gather your meaning.”

“I know it’s a secretive organization.”

“It is a social group, merely, one for persons employed in domestic duties or as personal attendants, particularly those in such stations who have an interest in maintaining the old standards of their positions.”

“It may be a kind of club for servants,” Sherlock replied, “but more importantly, it supplies you with critical information. All the people working quietly in the employment of people of power, and listening at their keyholes or sorting through their inboxes, are at your disposal. I have something similar—my Homeless Network—but your network has something mine doesn’t, something more precious than gold, and dangerous beyond imagining.”

“Sherlock,” John said, “slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Jeeves knows more than he’s letting on, John.” He eyed Jeeves intensely, not that looks of any intensity had any effect on Jeeves. “His club possesses a book with sensitive information on those who employs its members. That book has information I want.”

No doubt he had heard all this, but Jeeves had no comment for the press.

“Is this for a case?” John asked.

“No, though it may prove useful for a case someday. I have a more personal interest in the book at present. My brother has a PA, and she must certainly be associated with your network, Jeeves. I’m prepared to cut a deal. I want whatever compromising information your group possesses on Mycroft Holmes.”

“No,” Jeeves said.

“That’s it—just no? Well, I see speaking to you will not only be fruitless but excruciatingly boring.”

Not the friendly note one seeks from a prospective friend, I dare say. John noted this as well. He sighed, and lightly touched Sherlock’s arm. “All right, that’s enough.”

It was the kind of stern tone I wouldn’t have used on a _force majeure_ like Sherlock for love or money, but it seemed to work aright for John. Sherlock calmed down a trifle.

Keeping his voice steady, John continued, “Forget about the book for now. Your old rivalry with your brother can wait. We’re here to have a nice date, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. So please sit down.”

Amazingly, after the briefest of hesitation, Sherlock did so, to John’s right, and opposite Jeeves.

“I am acquainted with one or two details regarding a Mycroft Holmes,” Jeeves said.

The Baker Street Duo stared at him, and I joined in, strangely interested.

Jeeves went on, unfazed by this impromptu staring fete. “It would necessitate my resignation from the club should I reveal any sensitive information; however, I am at liberty to observe that your brother and myself share some characteristics—a retiring nature and an inclination towards careful thought, to name but two. One wonders if you have noticed this as well, and this is why you have taken to regarding me with antagonism.”

Sherlock snorted. “Really!”

“I do believe so,” Jeeves said. “If you have glanced at one or two of Mr. Wooster’s stories, you may have noted that I take an interest in psychology. _Your_ psychology is particularly interesting.”

“Well,” Sherlock rejoined sharply, “if we’re to discuss psychology, why not look at yours? Let us start with the facts. You refuse to call this man here”—he pointed at me, though I would have much preferred not to become involved—“by his first name, or to share your own. You’re his PA and have obviously been in service all your life—probably military service as well, I observe, from your firm posture and neat appearance.”

This earned an interested eyebrow from John, who never looked at Jeeves the same way again; though in every other respect, John seemed fast becoming impatient with this back-and-forth.

As things were starting to get out of hand between the two men of famed intelligence and personality (to put it one way), I was also becoming weary of our situation, yet I was intrigued by Sherlock’s observation. I had no idea Jeeves had been in the true rank and file. Should’ve seen it in his résumé, I imagine, but then again, I’d more or less hired him as soon as looked at him.

“You’ve lived a regimented life,” Sherlock concluded. “Clear rules and traditions all the way through. It’s really no wonder you’re afraid to be closer to your employer, since doing so would mean throwing away all the rules you know so well. And you do have a few traits in common with Mycroft—stuck-up and manipulative come to mind.”

“Sherlock, that’s enough!” John warned.

“No, let him continue,” Jeeves said, asking for trouble if you asked me, “I have heard something of the wisdom of the great consulting detective, and it is intriguing to hear that he is after all merely a mercurial and impetuous child.”

“Jeeves, hold on!” I advised.

Jeeves quieted, and Sherlock didn’t have anything more to add. But the damage was done. John and I shared a sorry glance. It was fair to say that our helpmeets hadn’t hit it off with each other. John and I had both agreed beforehand that they ought to get along like childhood friends, and we’d both got it wrong.

This was where the script read: Tense silence.

While all this nothing was going on, glasses of water manifested themselves on the table. It wasn’t exactly the kind of drink I wanted right then, but I dived for one anyway.

But then…

Music tinkling from a piano filled the void.

I should say that the void was better for it, but the tune left something to be desired, at least in my opinion. These things are a matter of taste, I suppose. One surely noted a jazzy sentiment behind it, yet I thought the notes fell flat, and don’t I mean it.

Once you’ve learned to read surprise and interest in the circumspect features of a contained PA, other dials are easy to read. What I mean is, having taken many opportunities to study Jeeves, I’ve learned to pick up right speedily the slight expressions—the little quirks of the lips and slants of the eyebrows, you know—on less discreet faces. Sherlock had such a face just then, with a pained look that made me want to remind him there was a doctor at table if anything was wrong.

“I wish you had chosen a place with better music,” Sherlock muttered to John.

John seemed happy enough for the change in topic, though he was confused by this new problem. “What’s wrong with it?”

This pained Sherlock even more. “Do you have to ask?”

I piped in, ready with sympathy. “I know what you mean, truly. I’ve got half a mind to toddle up there and take a swing at the keys myself.”

Sherlock folded his arms and huffed. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Oh, really? Shouldn’t we, oh, I don’t know, talk about our feelings, or something?”

Jeeves gave a light cough. “Perhaps it would be best,” he said, “were a respite to be taken, and discussion resumed at a later time, after heads have cooled.”

“That sounds good to me,” John said. “You two see to the music.”

“Well, all right.” I could see that a break of sorts might do some good, and help get us back on track.

“If nothing else,” Sherlock said, “we’ll have better music to have a dull evening to.”

I wished he’d sound more optimistic than that, but I could see he was somewhat rankled by his convo with Jeeves, and I let it go, instead leading him straightaway to the source of the questionable music.

Once there, I had a quick word with the pianist. He, being one of those professional Johnnies, getting his fee either way, gave me the go-for-it, and for it I went.

As soon as I started tapping the keys to a popular song, something odd happened to Sherlock. A kind of transformation, as it were, from annoyance to contentment.

“Not bad,” Sherlock murmured, with the look of a casting director who has heard the thing he’s been looking for. It struck him just right, I was sure.

“You like Lady Gaga?” I asked, fascinated.

“Your way of playing it,” Sherlock clarified. “It’s… not bad. I haven’t had the pleasure of acquaintanceship with another musician who actually cares about the sounds he’s making.”

I smiled at the compliment, and then exclaimed, “Oh, I just remembered! You play the violin, don’t you? If only we had one here, would could make this a proper show.”

Sherlock brightened at the idea, and I was already flipping through the songs in my head to find one we could play together someday. It wouldn’t have shocked me to learn he was doing the same.

I wasn’t there, but Jeeves told me later on that at the table, John had inquired about my man’s military service, which was apparently something people tended to bond over when they’d both been through it. John had been surprised, apparently, since he thought he could tell if someone had been in the military, and he’d missed the mark on Jeeves entirely. He’d supposed Jeeves’s posture and neatness had come simply from whatever butlerish training these PAs go through. I believe one or two friendly jokes were had over John’s seniority, him being what they call a commissioned officer whereas Jeeves was not, and before long they’d shimmied from the table and were tossing darts like old school chums.

Funny thing, isn’t it, how we’d gone about it all wrong? John and I had thought it only natural that the golden ties of friendship would sprout first between the two geniuses, but actually, chatting of tunes and composers and all that, Sherlock and I hit it off as if I were his rich uncle, and John and Jeeves, getting to know each other over darts and stories from basic training, or whatever it is these vets talk about, must have felt pretty silly for not having realized before what great friends they could be.

When the food was ready, we all returned to the table in good spirits, Sherlock and Jeeves making amends over their rocky start, each voicing their respect for the other’s wit and acumen. They spoke to each other about some of the more intricate problems that had been engaging their minds as of late. I didn’t follow much of it, but through it all, John and I shared many of the happiest glances I’ve ever had the privilege of sharing with anyone. It just shows that you can never tell how these things will work out, but they’ll work out.

Conversation, music, darts, and nourishment all complemented each other like puzzle pieces, creating the perfect picture of camaraderie. This atmosphere of openness and friendship did its work, wearing down Jeeves’s uneasiness all through the evening. Gradually, his shoulders relaxed, his tone lightened, and his smiles became recognizable for what they were to people who had never met him.

Once a corking time had been had, and we had said goodbye to our new friends, Jeeves took my hand.

“Bertie,” Jeeves murmured, “this evening was extremely enjoyable.”

I beamed at him. “I’m chuffed to bits to hear that, Jeeves.”

“My name is Reginald.”

I beamed ever brighter. “Ah, topping! How do you feel about me calling you Reggie?”

“It has a musical sound when falling from your lips. But it is also pleasing when you call me Jeeves.”

“Hmm.” I grinned. “How about I just call you sweetheart?”

Surprised for an instant, my Jeeves-turned-Reggie blushed in the most handsome fashion. “One fears such an epithet might become repetitive,” he said modestly.

“Oh? Well there’s always darling, dearest, dear ray of sunshine, sweet beloved…”

He ripened like a tomato under that last endearment.

“Right ho! Sweet beloved,” I proclaimed, hamming it up like there was no tomorrow, “you are the tree from which the fruit of my life hangs, oh dear cherished sweet beloved of mine!”

I’d never seen Jeeves so tremendously overcome with embarrassment and joy that he burst out laughing, nor had I considered it possible, but there it was, by Jove, and I laughed too.

~~

I put a bit more up on the blog about Sherlock and I dating, but it wasn’t a big deal. Our friends were mostly happy for us, and I didn’t care about whoever wasn’t.

Incidentally, one of our supporters was Mycroft, who gave us approval in his own way, and though I know he would deny it if you asked him, it meant a lot to Sherlock. No matter what he says, Sherlock cares about his brother. (Though that doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t still want to get his hands on that club book to see if there’s anything funny about Mycroft.)

While Sherlock and I made our relationship public, things were different for Bertie and Reggie. (Reggie is Jeeves’s first name—I’m still getting used to it, but I’m glad he finally told us.) Bertie was discreet about their dates and kept it mostly out of his blog.

I’d thought more about what they’d told me, and I was starting to understand just how different their circumstances were compared to ours. Social positions meant more in their world, and going against the status quo would bring them consequences that Sherlock and I didn’t have to worry about. It made sense that they wouldn’t want to advertise the fact that they were dating. Bertie even mentioned to me that some pals of his who’d married outside their class had chosen to elope in secret, so it wouldn’t surprise me if those two someday did the same, assuming they get to that stage, and I have a feeling they will.

A few of their trustworthy friends knew about their relationship though, and of course the four of us knew about it. As far as I could tell, nobody less trustworthy needed to know, at least not yet. This all meant that I couldn’t blog about our double dates, either. Although, maybe someday I’d get to blog about a double elopement—just a thought.

Yet there’s plenty of time before anything like that could happen, and I was happy to take all the time in the world to get to know Sherlock better.

Typing up the last case Sherlock and I had done on my laptop, I looked up to see Sherlock sitting across from me, absorbed in his own computer. He was studying something, going by the look on his face. There was a song quietly playing from his laptop, so maybe it had something to do with that. Anyway, it was a pleasure to watch him when he’s fascinated with something. There’s nothing like the intense concentration on his face when he’s at the top of his game.

I realized how comfortable this was, us sitting together in our flat, and I smiled. Dating had changed a few things, sure, but it hadn’t changed all that much, though now I knew that if I wanted to, I could walk over to his chair and offer him a kiss. Then he would smile at me in a way that left me breathless. Actually, that sounded like a good idea. Maybe I’d try it when he wasn’t busy.

Suddenly, Sherlock sat straight up in his chair.

“Listen to this, John,” he began, with his eyes on his laptop screen. “Bertie describes Reggie as being a consultant for the social elite. ‘Put it up to Jeeves,’ that is the slogan of his circle of acquaintances, so he says. He notes how wide Jeeves’s consulting practice is, and then there’s this pretty little comment: ‘Jeeves is like Sherlock Holmes. The highest in the land come to him with their problems.’”

“Afraid you have competition?” I asked playfully.

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. “On the contrary, a man with his connections is a useful contact. Besides, this circle of acquaintances that Bertie describes seems mainly invested in escaping unwanted engagements. Nobody consults Jeeves about murders or other things more in my line. For us not to assist each other is an appalling waste of assets. Much like you and Bertie get together as Two Bloggers and offer each other advice, why shouldn’t Reggie and I share resources as Two Consultants? In any event, if Sherlock Holmes and Reginald Jeeves become allies, then it must follow that Dr. Watson and Mr. Wooster will have better stories for their blogs. You see, John, all four of us would benefit, as would the public of London.”

This all sounded great, but throughout his speech I’d noticed that the tune playing softly in the background was familiar. “Sherlock, is that Lady Gaga?”

“‘Just Dance,’ to be precise. Bertie and I are going to play for you and Reggie. Not only that, but we’re going to do splendidly, and we both expect sound kisses afterward. Er, not from both of you. You know what I mean.”

I chuckled, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He glowed with joy, and it was the best thing in the world to see.

End~


End file.
